


Overturning

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock TV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-07 16:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12236379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: John meets Sherlock.At first its not good





	Overturning

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Sherlock Challenge prompt for October.

Waking up this Friday morning, my day off, nothing to do. I lazily stretch and get out of bed, opening the shade to see the sun is out. The weatherman had predicted a balmy day. What to do. I dress and decide to take the tube into the heart of London, find a cafe and have breakfast. Let someone else make it today.

* * *

Out on the street, I see a small cafe with tables set outside.

          'Perfect,' I think to myself.

I buy a paper from the near newsstand and sit down, ordering coffee, eggs, bacon, sausage, and bread. Treating myself good this morning.

* * *

The coffee poured, I'm looking at the passersby, my paper sitting forgotten. I enjoy people-watching.

* * *

Inside of me, I'm a quiet, shy character. I'm in my thirties, being average height, slim, my blonde hair fully intact I don't attract much attention. My genuine smile and blue eyes are the two features people mention. 

Had a few encounters with women, never anything that sticks. Easier to get a quick shag than a continuing relationship.

* * *

I enjoy an evening with my tea, a book or a movie on the telly.

I've been out of the army for a year now and didn't wish to discuss any part of it. And that's what most people will ask, what did you do, did you see combat, were you wounded. I don't even contact my old friends. Right now I need my alone time.

* * *

A brush of fabric passes over a portion of my table, swatting at my coffee cup, overturning it, spilling brown liquid on the newspaper and into my lap.

I jump up, yelling, chair overturning, trying to brush off the wetness of the liquid feeling it's hotness right to my skin.

          "Cup was too near the edge of the table," the man standing by me says, as I wipe my wet trousers off with my napkin.

Looking up, I catch a glimpse of tall. Dark curly hair hanging around his neck, angular face. His long flared coat seems out of place in this warm weather. That's what hit my cup.

Turning his back on me, swirling around him, a dark blue covering. He strolls casually off, without another word.

          'Stupid git,' I think to myself.

* * *

The waiter, all apology for someone else's carelessness, cleans the coffee off the table and pours another cup. Taking a deep inhale, sitting back down with a napkin on my lap to help the drying my penny-pincher self won't let this meal go to waste. I eat my breakfast, faster than I would have earlier, my wet trousers do nothing to keep that light mood I had.

* * *

Don't want to ride the tube home; there's plenty of available cabs to take. "Coffee spill," I joke as the driver notes the stain. 

          "Folks today have no manners," the older driver says in acknowledgment.

* * *

I change clothes, shaking off my bad mood and, think to myself, it's still early, now what to do.

It's Friday, and my favorite bookstore is open late. I love reading, anything from medical books to science fiction.

* * *

Yes-I can use my laptop to read a book online, but I prefer the paper in hand. The feel of a book, the pages to be turned, it's a physical thing.

* * *

The student in me is always keeping up with new medical procedures.  
I've enjoyed learning, and now, as a general practitioner, I have a small practice of my own. My clinic serves the local people, with two full-time nurses and another doctor.

I stroll to the bookstore and my mood changes to light watching the people pass by me.

* * *

Opening the door, the chimes ringing, I enter the store seeing old Max at the counter. He loves for his customers to feel at home, so he keeps three chairs, oh, those sink into chairs, a pile of cookies on the tables and a big box of toys for the tiny ones to take out and enjoy. There are shelves of books and tables of books.

* * *

Max acknowledges me with a wave of a hand, as I see a new set of books on a table that grabs my interest. Brand new science fiction hardcovers, some lying down, and others are on end opened up. As I stand with one book in my hand, I get knocked into the table, and the books fall onto the floor, jumbled on the table.

* * *

I look up, and there's the same man from the coffee incident wearing that same damn coat.

          "Stupid idea, putting books on their tails. Should be lying down," and off he goes making me do the picking up.

Again not a sorry or even a stoop to pick up some books. What a pompous idiot!

* * *

Max is at my side leaning down to help with the floored books and sets them on the table. He's an old man now, slightly bent over, almost all bald. He's owned the store for at least fifty years.

Before I enlisted in the army, Max had begged me to go with him to watch foreign movies. He lived alone, and it was the least I could do. I found, through Max's eyes, I could love those movies, with Max relating tales about the actors, the producers, the production of the films and the countries of origin. He never would talk about his past. From his accent, it sounded like one of the Germanic countries.

* * *

        "Max, don't bend. I can do it. Do you know who that man is?"

          " Sherlock Holmes is his name. His brother is some high mucky-muck in politics."

          "Umm, I'll give him a much-needed muck."

          "Oh don't pay him no mind. I feel sorry for him. He has no friends."

          "I can see why," the nasty dripping from my mouth.

          "John, have some compassion. There must be a reason he's so gruff and cold. Why not try to be a friend to him? He's in here almost every Friday. Science, music. That's his loves. You're alone; he's alone."

Snickering at the last words, "Max are you suggesting we should-?"

          "No, no, no," waving his hand in the air, "I'm not saying that. But, John, maybe a friend to, you know, go out, meet women."

          "I haven't touched base with anyone since my return. You're right though. I should-. But that man?"

          "John, lonely is lonely. It makes a person crazy. Trust me. When my wife died, I holed up in my house. It took a good friend, would you believe of my wife's to get me out. She introduced me to a widower, and we've been good companions ever since. Think about it."

* * *

Max leaves to help a customer out, and I spend another two hours reading and chatting with Max until he's ready to close and I start for home.

* * *

Home: a one-room hole in the wall, contains a bathroom, a one burner stove, desk and chair, and a bed. Boring. And very confining.

Time John, time to get out, meet people.

* * *

It's Friday again, and I have the late shift at the clinic, but curiosity takes me to the bookstore.

* * *

There are lots of people milling about because Max is having a book sale of which I knew nothing. The science aisle is devoid of anyone except one. And it's him, Mr. Holmes. The same coat, collar turned up.

A book on the solar system in his hand as I can observe from the cover. He doesn't appear to have noticed me, but I think he's, in reality, aware of everything around him.

* * *

          " Hmm, hi, there, have you been to the planetarium recently? A good presentation on the solar system is playing right now."

My voice has him turning to me; instantly his head is back in the book.

It's almost like he's trying hard not to show his awareness of me, but yet, he's keenly conscious that I'm trying to communicate with him.

          "Why would I be so plebian as to do that?"

          "I don't know. I'm off work tomorrow. Maybe we could go together? Dr. John Watson," holding my hand out.

He looks amused, but my hand remains empty.

* * *

Max is in the aisle and places a hand on Sherlock's arm."You should go, Sherlock. Dr. Watson is a very learned man. But lonely."

Embarrassed by his statement, I hang my head. Max stands still, tut-tuts, "you young people. Why is it so hard to talk to strangers. Go, boys, keep each other company," he walks to the register to some paying customers.

* * *

          "Can't say no to Max," Sherlock looks down at me, a slight smirk.

That's when I notice his eyes, intelligence shining out of hazel, no hazel-blue eyes. Intense.

* * *

Taking my mobile out I look up the times, turning the screen to Sherlock.

          "Three would be convenient." A statement, not a question.

"How about an early dinner, also?"

          " Agreeable," and making sure his coat collar is up he saunters out of the aisle.

I guess we're meeting at the planetarium.

His head pokes around the shelves,"I don't do late."

* * *

The following day is rainy, but when isn't it in London!. I arrive half an hour early and standing in the lobby, leaning against the check-in is Sherlock.

I receive a wide grin, "I bought our tickets." I sense not to ask to pay my share.

          "We have time to look at the exhibits if you want."

His coat is open. Now I understand. The dark blue coat is a statement. A way of showing off, making himself visible.

Sherlock's baritone voice shows off his vast knowledge and, surprising to him I engage in the same.

He's impressed but still, finds it amusing to correct me rudely. I'm taken aback by it but, what is it, how to express the appeal he has for me.

There's a piece of him that doesn't care what anyone thinks, using his intellect and rudeness to scare people off. But, he craves attention, and, using that same brainpower he hopes to gain that.

* * *

The show discusses the theoretical beginning of the solar system and the possibilities of its demise. I enjoy it but perceive that Sherlock at times was losing his focus, bored maybe.

* * *

          "Dinner, John?" when the performance is over.

          "Starved. Where to?"

          "Nice Chinese restaurant down the street."

          "Lead on."

* * *

The rain is only a light drizzle as we walk to the restaurant, taking a table near the wall, placing our orders. 

I'm amazed at Sherlock's ability to turn on the charm when he wants.

The young waiter is Chinese and Sherlock orders in Mandarin as he tells me the language is. The man's eyes light up to have that acknowledgment.

* * *

Sherlock crosses his legs, his gloves off, hands on his knees. His eyes, look fixedly at me, deep, penetrating, off-putting to some.

* * *

          "Dr. Watson, book lover, a former army captain, adventurer, even though he doesn't think so, looking to move on to a better habitat then occupying now."

          "You can tell all that from this evening? Without my saying anything?"

          "Simple deductions. I'm looking for a flatmate. One who won't be intrusive. Astute, alert, clever. Are you that person?"

          "I'm looking for a flat to share. Someone dynamic, proficient, observant. Are you that person?"

* * *

Sherlock, taken aback by my parry, at first scowls, and you can just see the slight nodding of his head as if to approve.

          "You'll do. The address is 221B Baker Street. My landlady Mrs. Hudson will have a spare key for you."

          "You're presuming I'll take you up on this. You, a stranger and a total git."

Dinner is now on the table, and Sherlock does not remark on my last statement. We eat in comparative stillness.

* * *

I insist on paying for dinner which he concedes.

"Goodnight John," and without waiting, he calls a cab and leaves.

* * *

There is an allure about him. Besides the beauty of his form and face, the chemistry, there's the ability not to give a damn what folks think of him.

I find him dazzling. Dangerous, brusque, beautiful, sexual. All those words cross my mind, all the what ifs, the perchance, the contingencies.

Mixed up? Yes. He's scrambled my head. A man, a man who I might-.

No, John, that does not exist in your world. In your world you're never involved with a man, never sexually, never.

* * *

Never the less, I pack a bag with a few items, some clothes, my wash kit, and a few books.

* * *

The next day, my small suitcase with me, I find 221B Baker Street, knock to the landlady opening the door, "Dr. Watson, we're expecting you. It's right at the top of the stairs. Sherlock is there."

Once into the flat, I see chaos. Books, papers, lying everywhere. I large fireplace, lit now, and two chairs at each end. Cozy but messy.

          "There's an extra bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing it," she smiles knowingly.

          "We'll be needing the second bedroom. I'll take that if you're already using the one down here, Sherlock."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson leaves us alone, "Sherlock," calling over her shoulder, "I've made scones. Will bring them up to you and Dr. Watson later."

As I look around more Sherlock is busy cleaning up, well, he's moving one pile to another.

I give a chortle and putting my bag down, "listen, I could use a cup of tea right now. Do you mind if I make? I learned how to make a mean tea in the army. Or, would you rather make it?"

* * *

Bent over, a bunch of papers in hand, he stops, he stands, and I'm startled by the show of desire in Sherlock's eyes.

Or is that my imagination that's pulling me in a direction I don't want to visit.

* * *

          "Tea, John Watson, would be spectacular at this time. I'll let you make it. Let that be your employment here. I don't eat much, like takeaway, and enjoy my violin."

          "That my friend, will be your 'employment,' playing the violin for me."

* * *

Up the stairs, hesitant. John, you can still go back. Putting my few items away, I sit on the bed, terrified. No, too strong a word. Alarmed is more like it. 

If I stay, there's the possibility, only a-. Do I want to entertain the idea? Adventurer, he said. Guess that's true if I'm here, my clothes in the drawers, jacket hanging in the closet.

Here goes nothing.

* * *

Downstairs to the sitting room."I have a few more things to bring over, but my bedsit didn't allow for much."

* * *

I feel all 'sixes and sevens,' as my mom used to say. It's a saying meaning you don't know what to do with yourself.

The air crackles around us. We're both aware of each other's bodies, how we move, which way we sit.

* * *

Tea made we sit down by the lit fireplace. 

It's a typical London evening, and the drizzle of rain makes it chilly.

Those two overstuffed chairs by the fire are well worn, fabric faded. Sherlock sits in one which I imagine he considers his own and I take the other, a red and green flowered fabric, time has made the seat cushion find it's niche, digging a hole in the middle.

I fit in that hole very well. My ass is making itself very comfortable.

* * *

There is no talking, no idle chatter. Much of the time during the days and evenings we use our laptops, watch telly, with no questions further asked, about our pasts or future.

* * *

For weeks this is how we live. It's like a well-worn shoe, fitting snugly and slipping into it is effortless.

* * *

I arrive at the flat one afternoon, having the early shift, open the windows to the first warm day in weeks, and decide to make dinner.

* * *

I text Sherlock, having no idea where he is, let him know that I'm cooking a meal and it will be ready at six.

I cook simple food, not inclined towards gourmet. Too time-consuming.

The meal is fried chicken, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, a veggie of peas and asparagus.

* * *

I'm surprised when Sherlock walks in with a bunch of flowers in his hand. 

He finds one of his tall beakers used for his experiments, puts water in it and places the bright red geraniums in the glass vessel. The beaker joins the service on the table, plates, silverware and even two glasses of wine. Sherlock never helps out, whether its laundry or cleaning up. It's either myself or Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

Our silence is now a routine. It blends in with the mood I'm in today. My feelings for Sherlock are starting to get in the way. I think of him daily, whether out with the boys at the pub, or in my bedroom, hand on my member pulling away.

* * *

The dishes cleaned, as Sherlock is putting the dishes in the cabinet, I turn to go out and find myself with my body near Sherlocks.

That's all that's needed. I can't, can't, But I do.

* * *

The kiss is not tentative, not light, not only lips. Tongues, both of us pushing in, tasting, biting. "Bedroom," he utters in a strangled voice.

* * *

Lovers now, entangled bodies, entangled lives.

All this is what I want. What I have been dreaming about but afraid to put into my life.

Sherlock and I are lovers, in love.


End file.
